The New Verse News presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.

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Monday, July 31, 2006

Sad tidings for the family of eighty-two-year-old Norman Goestler. The St. Louis native was vacationing in China’s Shanxi Province, when he died in an earthquake. Local officials say Mr. Goestler suffered a heart attack brought on by the shaking of his hotel room. Two hundred thousand Chinese were also killed in the quake.

Jon Wesick has a Ph.D. in physics, has practiced Buddhism for over twenty years, and has published over a hundred poems in small press journals such as American Tanka, Anthology Magazine, The Blind Man’s Rainbow, Edgz, The Kaleidoscope Review, Limestone Circle, The Magee Park Anthology, The Publication, Pudding, Sacred Journey, San Diego Writer’s Monthly, Slipstream, Tidepools, Vortex of the Macabre, Zillah, and others. His chapbooks have won honorable mentions twice in the San Diego Book Awards.

Robert Emmett finds some of these words flying through the air, caught in the branches of trees or among the beach stones of Michigan, where they may have a life of their own. He's just borrowing them for now.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

It's nothing to worry about. He's sixty-seven years old andhas had headaches for as long as he can remember. TwoAdvil, sometimes four, or the new Advil Migraine, and it'spretty much unnoticeable. The problem is, he's developedan ulcer. Newly retired, and he develops an ulcer. KissAdvil goodbye. Say hello to headaches almost everyafternoon. The strongest over the counter drug he can takeis Tylenol. Doesn't do a damn thing. Finally he lets his wifeconvince him to see a doctor. The doctor starts him on alow dose of Elavil. When that doesn't help, they decide totake x-rays, just in case there's a problem. The doctor'soffice calls and makes another appointment. He walks in tofind two other doctors sitting there, one a neuro-surgeon,the other a psychologist. They show him an x-ray withthree needles embedded in his brain. They say they've readabout cases such as his before: needles inserted in the softspots of an infant's head to stop his crying. Usually fatal.Usually undetectable. Then they ask him to tell themabout his parents. He begins, of course, by saying howmuch they loved him.

Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

After nearly six years I've cast a vetoAnd I must admit the power feels sweet-o.

With a stroke of my pen I killed the ambitionsOf those godless stem cell coalitionsWho crassly deny that embryos frozenAre truly human, though left unchosen.

Potent forces were arrayed against me;Even Bill Frist inveighed against me.I was shocked to see many Republicans fail meDid they really think they could derail me?I'm the Decider and what I decideNo two-bit Congress dares override.

The Innocents rescued from the slaughterMight someday be your son or daughter(Though embryos I've fiercely guarded,may end as waste, to be discarded.)I'm a kind man; I pity human afflictionsAs long as they suit my higher convictions.

Monday, July 24, 2006

In a couple hours I will shave and shower and grab my jacket and flagand head downtown to be a face in the crowd, a hand waving, a handwaving a flag for Bravo Company riding down downtown on a fire truck.Finally home! And the hands waving and the signs not like the signs before. SoWelcome Home Troops! Bravo, Bravo Company! And the flagswaving and the yellow ribbons waving and the handswaving the flags and the ribbons being taken down and the cheers,Hurrah! and the hats coming off and the mothers crying a little and my hat offand some dads saluting and my hand waving and the trucks wailing --all this as sure as there is a war.

Inflicting revenge with nationalistic fervorRazor wired perimeters off limitsGiants in miniature stonewalling stallsSuppose world ends so what

Dr. Charles Frederickson is a Swedish-American pragmatic idealist, chronic optimist and heretical believer who has wandered intrepidly through 206 countries, an original sketch and poetic impression for each presented on http://imagesof.8k.com. Having spread rejuvenated roots and wings in Thailand, the past year has been devoted to providing volunteer comfort and supportive relief to children and families affected by the tsunami. 100+ publications on 5 continents.

Erle Kelly lives in Long Beach, CA and is a graduate of Cal State University Long Beach. For the last three years he has participated in a local poetry workshop conducted by published poet and writer, Donna Hilbert. Since Erle's retirement he volunteers his time tutoring, working for the local United Nations Association, traveling with his wife, Kristine, gardening, reading and writing.

Friday, July 21, 2006

"We are desperately trying to evacuate and have become more and more disappointed and angry with the way the evacuation is being handled. These operations are taking place in a war zone."--CNN.com (Jul. 19, 2006 Americans to Leave Lebanon by Friday)

"I just want to assure the American people that, one, I've got the authority to do this; two, it is a necessary part of my job to protect you." --CNN.com (Dec. 21, 2005 Bipartisan Call for Wiretapping Probe [quoting, Pres. George W. Bush])

responseand governmentstruggles to line things up.connections, often, are not madeto the importance ofplanning exitsen masse

Carol Elizabeth Owens is an attorney and counselor-at-law in Western New York (by way of Long Island and New York City). She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Ms. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play. The poem "an escape hatch chronicle" is written in a form called eintou (which is West African for "pearl," as in "pearls of wisdom").

Thursday, July 20, 2006

From bush to bushwe strain to follow with our eyeswhere the guide is pointing outthe red-winged blackbird.

Now he lights on the very topof a lodge pole pineand the guide centers himin the lens of his telescope

to give us a close-up viewof the red patches he wearslike a soldier’s insigniaon the shoulders of his black uniform.

Belligerent, he daresother birds to go against him.“The color red is like a threatto birds,” the guide explains.

“They’re hardwired to fightwhen they see it. But the blackbirdcan hide his threatening patches.Each feather is controlled by muscle.

In winter he covers his red featherswith black ones to conserve energyhe would have wasted on fighting.”Sometimes feeding is more important than making war.

The bird flits to another bush.This time we know right where to look.

Gretchen Fletcher leads writing workshops for Florida Center for the Book, an affiliate of the Library of Congress. She was awarded the Grand Prize in San Francisco’s Artists Embassy International Dancing Poetry Festival, was selected as a finalist for the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award, was awarded first honorable mention in Canada’s lichen literary journal Serial Poet competition, and was named a Juried Poet at the Houston Poetry Fest. Her poetry and essays appear frequently in literary journals, magazines, and newspapers.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Flashing his crest of feathery plumes like any royalty,the Kingfisher plunges headfirst in the river, beaks preythat only his air-and-water-designed eyes can seeand with a whir of wings against rock-like clayfeeds his flame-red, tail-lifted mate, astride their eggs.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

I have viewed the desolate Plains of Judeafrom high atop the brow of a skull-shaped hill.

And I saw many things.

And I spoke of what I saw,and did as I said I wouldsince I spoke of these things.

I have offered my domain to those who are poor in spirit.I have granted homesteads to those who are meek.I have comforted those who mourn.I have sated those who are hungry and thirsty for justice.I have shown mercy to those who are merciful.I have looked upon those who are clean of heart.I have adopted as my children those who strive to make peace.I have offered my house to those who suffer persecution for the sake ofjustice.

Why then, do some speak of my coming again,when I have already spoken of all you need to know?

I have viewed the desolate Plains of Judeafrom high atop the brow of a skull-shaped hill.And have no desire to view those Plains again.

Did you not hear what I was saying?

Put down your hymnals.Put down your exultationof those who claim to knowwhat is in my mind.Put down your differences.

And do as I have already spoken.

John Cross holds a BA and MA in History from Kent State University. He has spent the last 35 years pursuing a career in Marketing Communications. He is active in local grassroots progressive politics and in support of organizations offering services to the disabled. He has been writing poetry, primarily for his own consumption and sanity, since the mid-1960s.

Friday, July 14, 2006

He might look like Felix, but really he's a pit bull indisguise. Look closely at the black and white markings. Ifyou can get close, that is. It's a familiar story – his Tabbymother abandoned him when he wasn't even a week old.He scavenged the neighborhood and discovered a pit bullwith six teats and a litter of only four who was willing tolet him nurse. Maybe some of her fury was sucked in withthe milk. Maybe it was his natural mother's fault forabandoning him. But he feels the need to prowl and protectalong with his adopted family. His hiss can sound like agrowl if he sucks in his breath and blows hard. Plus he hassomething they don't have: extremely long claws. Six oneach paw. That can't be right. No. He counts again. Oh god,he's deformed. So that's why his mother stopped washinghim. He sucks in an extra-deep breath and bounds towardthe Avon Lady.

Rochelle Ratner's books include two novels: Bobby's Girl (Coffee House Press, 1986) and The Lion's Share (Coffee House Press, 1991) and sixteen poetry books, including House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003) and Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, October 2005). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage: www.rochelleratner.com.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Whenever my mother felt she neededa break from home, hearth, housewifery,she demanded my father take her to, oh,San Francisco or San Diegoor Chicagoor to her cousin Densy’s in Toledoand Dad loudly thrilled to the prospect of a holiday for himselfnot to mention a breakfor his wife. He and I walked determinedlydown to the Gulf station on the boulevardfor the right map (free for the askingin those days) and, once returned,the whole family gathered round the dinner tableto watch Dad blaze the trail with a red china markerfrom our town round cities and through mountainsand deserts to nirvana.

On the ensuing Sunday,from the fat travel section in the paperwe cut out reply couponsto request brochures from the resorts and attractionsalong the road map. Thick envelopes came droppingin days,through our front door’s mail slot,with totem poles and carved mountains,orange groves and petrified wood,canyons and chasms and cavesfor daysuntil my brother had a big game coming,I a little part in a play,and my mother added up the prices in the pamphlets.

My father marked the destination boldlyatop a manila folderbig enough to hold the road mapand the guides. He filed italphabetically in his den desk drawer.

After my father died, I counted eighty-three road maps,eighty-three untaken tripsfading in their folders in the drawer.My mother smiled at my recollection of themand pointed to the dumpster.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

I am here deliberately, but not intentionally.It is not where I need to be, except here,I can avoid loneliness, interruptions, questions,see my sun-haired sister, my kind nephews.As is typical for a New Yorker, I am suspiciousof the nice people. In the coffee place with the cute name,the coffee sucks, the bagels and brownies suck,as well. I miss the givens of New York City,a good bagel, great coffee everywhere,though I am suspicious of any capitalistwho smiles or who is concerned that I do not.

Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.Motherfuck, they know precisely what they do.It is moreso a question of empathy, where it prevails,where it falters. Like empathy for cowboy chic,poor white people, their hair. I don't have any.I really do hate them. For it. And don't let themopen their mouths and desecrate the English of the kingwith that twang shit. Speaking of which, Condoleeza,my workshop people tell me, does what her boss tells herto do, to keep her job. According to Aaron McGruder,her job is killing people. According to Ruth-Miriam Garnett,so was Colin's, and politics has an ethics that wavers,but then, all ethics waver, all civilizations wane.

Death, how ever, is for ever, as well, the lines we cross,smiling, as we prepare to drink the blood of an enemy;I learned recently some aggressive monkeys do this,while some peaceful monkeys have a lot of sex.Maybe Condoleeza should fuck her boss, turn him out,resign, then volunteer for future fucking. Maybe then,the two of them could work together to cultivateavoidance issues, like how to avoid the genocideof African Americans in coastal regions,the viagra bombing of Afghanis on camels.

Consider morality by default as delusion, as nihilist.Consider, nothing falls straight by accident.I know; I have a Dirt Devil.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Stephen Lawrence, who has an MA in English and Diplomas in Applied Psychology and Education, works for the South Australian government. His fiction and poetry has won or been shortlisted for twenty Australian literary awards, and he was guest author at the Adelaide Festival of Arts Writers' Week 2000. His third poetry collection, entitled How Not to Kill Government Leaders, was launched at Writers' Week 2002.

Monday, July 10, 2006

"Light is slipping underthe dream shadeNo matter what we’ve attemptedcan’t darken the room for the showthe one that surpasses their mothers

The shade is not long enoughcan’t cover the entire windowand they are struck by the worldintruding with every horrorwe’ve tried to keep out

So we board up the glassand tell each house to do likewiseflash pictures on the wallsamuse seduce bemusehypnotize the populace

They sing our hymns and anthemsWe are free Now they kill as we choose"

Roberta Gould’s poetry has appeared in many journals and periodicals, including Confrontation, The New York Times, Green Mountain Review, Blue Line, The Village Voice, Chapultepec Review, The Pacific Coast Journal, Helicon Nine, Bridges, and Rio on Line. Her published books are Dream Yourself Flying (1979), Writing Air, Written Water (1980), Only Rock (1985), Esta Naranja (1988), Not by Blood Alone (1989), Live Show (1993), Three Windows (1997), In Houses With Ladders (2000). Her eighth book, Pacing the Wind, will be out this summer. Her website is www.robertagould.net.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

Yesterday they were playing on the beachScratching pictures in the sandAnd eating mangos in the shade.They were laughing and singingIn a language I don't know. Their eyesAnd teeth were bright and shiny. SomeoneSmiled at them and gave them lunch.They still had on their school clothes.

Today they are inside the pagesOf the L.A. Times. They are motionlessAnd their wrists are tagged. Their eyesAnd mouthes are closed. There is no warmth,No color. They don't belong here.They still have on their school clothes.Details are recorded only in black and white.Something about a bus, a bomb,And innocent children.Above them a man wails silently.I stop reading.

Kathy Rogers first found her voice in a poetry workshop she attended by mistake. Years later, she still enjoys these poetry classes wtih Donna Hilbert. When not teaching reading to adults in a community college, she travels with her husband Jack.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Bush loves to invoke the signing statementForcing congressional power abatement.He views his Executive rule as royalObviating legislative toil.Why should two branches be involvedWhen he and Cheney have it all solved?He's the Decider and he will decideBy which parts of the law he will abide.

To our surprise, enter Arlen SpecterNever known for a leftward vectorIncensed at Presidential dismissiveness,Causing inter-branch divisiveness.He accuses Bush of usurpationsThat defy Executive limitations;Of running the country like a feudal fiefdomOrchestrated by an absolute chiefdom.(Will Specter show the same brutal skillThat blew away Anita Hill?)

Now that the Court's rapped Dubbya's knucklesWe'll see if our Bush league Caesar bucklesAnd yields with grace to the Justices' biddingOr tries to pretend they were merely kidding.And while he continues his covert crimes,He'll blame all mishaps on the New York Times.

Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published on local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

by Jon WesickWhere will you go nowthat sanity’s hoarse voice is barely a whisper,and the house that Reagan built crumbleson its foundation of wishful thinking?Take the gifts your nation gave you.Sew a thought, a poem, or a bookin the lining of your coat and join the diaspora of reason.Leave your countrymen to their chosen fates.Help them by sheltering language and meaning far away.Flee the nation of black lung, monkey trials,and thalidomide babies, where dime-store preachers’ rants on the am dial drown out the screams from the torture chambers.Flee the New Deal that became the same old deal.Flee the eight-dollar-an-hour Wal-Mart American Dream.Flee the crowded jails, the union busters,pregnant teens draping hopes on rusty coat hangers,and the wars declared to win popularity contests.Before silver wings cut cumulus clouds and sever your past, look down at what you’ve lost.Weep for the smell of bacon and eggs on a crisp Colorado morning.Weep for the cold steel wind off Lake Michigan,for backyard barbecues, corn on the cob,and lightning bugs on a warm summer night.Weep for tree houses and tire swings.Weep for drive-in movies and first cars with wide back seats.Weep for ruby-throated hummingbirdsand fresh tortillas on an Austin night.Weep for veterans sipping Orange Crush, their uniforms threaded with needlepoints of shrapnel.America has wasted so much.Jon Wesick has a Ph.D. in physics, has practiced Buddhism for over twenty years, and has published over a hundred poems in small press journals such as American Tanka, Anthology Magazine, The Blind Man’s Rainbow, Edgz, The Kaleidoscope Review, Limestone Circle, The Magee Park Anthology, The Publication, Pudding, Sacred Journey, San Diego Writer’s Monthly, Slipstream, Tidepools, Vortex of the Macabre, Zillah, and others. His chapbooks have won honorable mentions twice in the San Diego Book Awards.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

by Verandah Porche 1. We chafe in the cafeteria,make points, scratch notes as two men clarify:Should their power plant put out a plume, we’ll get word over the airwaves toStay Put (I quote from an old emergency radio decal): Close all doors and windows. Go into your basement if you have one.or Evacuate (I exaggerate):Sling Gram’s walker into the hatchback. Never mind sleet, foot-deep mud ruts, livestock, pets. Motor north to the high school gym, find kids, tumble, shoot hoops, eat bologna till the all-clear siren. Old Mert who has run a snake down a thousand drains raises his hand: Why waste another fifty grand for a man to train us to do the impossible? 2. Winter throttled us: blizzard, hazards. Now May, Yankee-men rehearse Terror over the Ridge again.I hack roots, heap rock, sort trash, sprinkle ashes for a new clearing, scented by lilac, scored by semi-automatics.Look, we are not the target.Shots tat our safety net.Listen, it’s a fireworks finale, minus the dazzle. Each pop, my pang of solidarity with all who till in peril. Based in rural Vermont since 1968, Verandah Porche has published The Body’s Symmetry (Harper and Row) and Glancing Off (See Through Books) and has pursued an alternative literary career. She has written poems and songs to accompany her community through a generation of moments and milestones. As a teacher and facilitator, she has created collaborative writing projects in schools and nontraditional settings: literacy and crisis centers, hospitals, factories, nursing homes, senior centers, a 200 year-old Vermont tavern and an urban working class neighborhood. Her work has been featured on NPR’s “Artbeat,” on public radio stations around New England and in the Vermont State House. The Vermont Arts Council awarded her a Citation of Merit, honoring her contribution to the state’s cultural life in 1998, and a recent grant to support the preparation of poetry for publication and performance.

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Emails to The New Verse News that do not follow the guidelines printed at the top of this page and in this column will be deleted. Poets are reminded, therefore, NOT to send attachments unless specifically requested to do so.

Although the editors and audience of The New Verse News have a politically progressive bias, we welcome well-written verses of various visions and viewpoints.

In any event, opinions expressed in The New Verse News are those of the poems' writers (or, perhaps, only of the poems' speakers) and not necessarily those of the editors, the audience, or other contributors to the site.

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